


Excited?

by utrinque_paratus



Series: the world is up for grabs [1]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: (ok maybe a very tiny bit but that really doesn't count), Bonding, But otherwise, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Gen, Just Nightingale being supportive and Abigail her usual awesome self, Nightingale gives Abigail her first boxing lesson, No Angst, Post - The Furthest Station, very slight headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:13:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23081518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/utrinque_paratus/pseuds/utrinque_paratus
Summary: Abigail’s brows drew into an impressive frown. “Don’t go easy on me.”“I don’t intend to,” he said. “I’m most assured that you can pack quite a punch.”
Relationships: Abigail Kamara & Thomas Nightingale
Series: the world is up for grabs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1986364
Comments: 15
Kudos: 65





	Excited?

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic was inspired by this wonderful fanart by jarrows on tumblr:  
> https://jarrows.tumblr.com/post/611818315822825472/boxing-lessons

“Excited?” asked Thomas.

“Yes!” replied Abigail, almost immediately.

Only for a brief moment, he glanced up from his hands to get a glimpse of Abigail’s face.

He was currently occupied with bandaging her knuckles in the correct crisscrossing pattern with some high-fibre cotton wraps; normally he’d be able to apply them standing on his head, but he was used to the broader and more rugged structure of a grown-up man’s palm. With Abigail’s rather delicate build, he had to be careful not to put too much compression onto her bloodstream, and to avoid unnecessary folds. Far too often he had experienced skin rubbed sore and numbed fingers due to incorrect binding technique, and he’d be vigilant to circumvent Abigail carrying away any marks as long as they were avoidable.

With repeated and extraneous sparring sessions, these kinds of injuries would transpire a good bit sooner than later, no matter whether the protections were worn appropriately or not. But this wasn’t quite necessary to happen during her first sparring session, as he was aware that neither Peter nor her parents would be particularly contented with such things.

Especially as they weren’t to know anything about this whole affair. Yet, at least.

When Abigail had approached him to request boxing lessons - quite adamantly, he might add, once she had gained knowledge about Peters’ and his regular sparring sessions - she did further ask him to refrain from bringing her cousin, or her parents, into the loop of proceedings.

“I’m afraid that they are gonna have an... objection. And,” she had added upon being confronted with one of his sterner gazes - after all, he had to at least give the expression of acting responsibly  _ sometimes _ \- “it will only be once. Just to try. Please! I’m sure it will be okay, and then we can tell them.”

(Well, he had never been able to completely resist the appeal of breaking the rules. Be it sneaking out the night gate in Casterbrook to things that would have even had  _ the Nightingale _ court-martialled and shot upon detection.)

But apart from that, Abigail herself surely enough wouldn’t mind raw knuckles - if that spark in her eyes was anything to go by. It spoke of lighthearted anticipation and determination, and of an inherent will to rise up to every challenge.

“Very well,” said Thomas. He was met with an enthusiastic grin. Resistance was futile - he couldn’t prevent the corners of his mouth quirking up to match Abigail’s expression.

There was something about Abigail Kamara - just like it had been, was still, with Peter - that had unearthed something inside him he thought he’d lost; during another life, another time. And he found that in her presence, it was some kind of mirth and joy of his youth that came back to him; and it was happening unconsciously, without thinking. And yet, he found himself welcoming it back with open arms. A breeze pointing him to the future, carrying him to go forward with a step so much impossibly lighter than it had appeared a few years before.

It almost seemed that his mind had begun to slowly catch up with the de-ageing his body had undergone ages ago, and it felt nothing short of a suffocating haze that had drowned him since decades being purged from his lungs.

Thomas completed wrapping Abigail’s left hand and asked her to both stretch and bend her fingers.

“Does it feel comfortable? Any kind of rigidity or irregular pressure?”

“Yeah,” Abigail said, and observed her fists. “I mean, no. Feels okay. Pretty cool, actually,” and she threw some experimental punches that didn’t look half as bad considering that she had never attended any kind of fighting classes before.

Satisfied, he got the brand new red head-protection and boxing gloves out of an online store cardboard box that Molly had firmly placed into his arms this morning; and helped Abigail put them on. They both had a perfect fit for her sizes. As far as he knew, Molly hadn’t been present when Abigail and he had made their plans, but he had long since resigned himself to the fact that it was outright impossible to keep  _ anything _ from Molly - no matter if she was around the premises or not. And this rule applied above all when something was meant to be a secret.

(Thomas had never bothered to find out how she did it. And, in any case - why should he? He had nothing to hide from her, not truly - not in a way that mattered.)

Next, he picked up a much older and rather worn pair of leather focus mitts and fastened them over his hands. For a moment, he had considered wrapping a slight layer of bandage over his own knuckles, too. The straps did tend to grow quite uncomfortable over time, but then again, he had accumulated enough protective layers of callouses and scars throughout recently. They originated from both his renewed vigour at forging, and the constant boxing exercise he did on his own - with, and, as he had to admit to himself, at times also _without_ the proper protection.

(It had been a regular thing once - and occasionally, even with the haze lifting, it still happened. When the mindless rhythm of hitting the punching bag, the pain of burning and overstrained muscles in his arms meeting that of lacerated knuckles helped to focus, to cope, even if just momentarily - when it all became too much. The nightmares, the memories, the stress, the emptiness, the worries. It was all good, as long as it wouldn’t resume being usual practice. Because it could be worse. It could be broken bones against the unforgiving surface of a wall. He knew that it could because it had once been.)

_ “Right.” _

Thomas drew his attention away from the stories written over the back of his hands and rejoined the present and Abigail in the centre of the room. “We’ll start slow.”

Abigail’s brows drew into an impressive frown. “Don’t go easy on me.”

“I don’t intend to,” he said. “I’m most assured that you can pack quite a punch.”

Abigail beheld him for a second - with a glance that was sharp and rivalled those of many a master at school, and later an XO he might have tried (and failed) to stare down - before she appeared to be satisfied with his exhibit of sincerity.

“However,” Thomas went ahead, “you need to begin with the essential techniques and ingrain their proper execution with repetition and precision. Otherwise, you’ll not just be unable to exploit your full strength and potential, but you are much more likely to hurt yourself.  _ Most importantly, _ though,” he added, “the stress of a serious confrontation - that is, a fight where your opponent means actual harm, especially one that is sudden and which you are not able to mentally prepare for, will, without fail, reduce your arsenal to instinctive action. Only such techniques that you can perform unfailingly and without thinking will succeed, and only the behaviour that is ingrained into your every nerve and muscle will be able to help keep you alive when it truly matters.”

A moment passed before Abigail nodded knowingly.  _ “Fear not the one who has practised 10,000 kicks once, but fear the one who has practised one kick 10,000 times,” _ she stated.

Thomas had a feeling that this was another quote of modern pop culture which he wasn’t able to put into the referenced context. But since such had evolved to be a usual occurrence with Peter’s entrance into his life, it was something he’d quickly accepted and couldn’t bring himself to stress about anymore. Instead, he smiled.

“Quite right,” he said. “You will encounter the same principles once you begin to study the forms and wisdoms. To familiarise yourself with this kind of discipline should only make things easier for you later on.”

A broad and sunny smile erupted on Abigail’s face hearing these words, but she didn’t comment any further. He continued.

“What I would like to teach you is self-defence first and foremost. What do you consider to be the most important aspect of that?”

Without missing a beat, Abigail answered: “Cover.”

“Right on the mark. Why?”

“‘Cause no attack in the world will do anything if I’m not able to protect myself while attacking, obviously.”

“It’s not  _ that _ obvious to many,” he replied, and they shared a raised eyebrow. “Only surprising your opponent and achieving a first punch knock-out allows you to omit a proper defence. But such should never be encouraged, as luck rarely finds itself inclined to these levels.”

He had learnt this the hard way, repeatedly.

And yet, he had done it often enough during past battles, when circumstance and desperation called for it.

But Abigail need not know about that. He was hardly a good example in matters of the self-preserving demeanour, and concerning that department, Peter already displayed a wide array of his poorer habits. He shan’t allow Abigail to drift into similar directions.

Thomas proceeded to demonstrate how to do a fitting defensive stance and move around keeping the right distance to an aggressor - one where you could do both timely evasive action, but also advance at a given opportunity.

“Footwork is a tedious thing, but as important and as much part of your defence and attack as anything else,” he explained as they moved around the room, him constantly shifting towards Abigail or withdrawing and letting her get a feeling for combining position, motion, and spacing. “It’s constant work. Anticipating, reacting, achieving a new position. Be light on your feet, but never become jittery, unstable, or your opponent will use the chance to overrun or throw. You are dropping your cover, keep it up! Not a step too little, but not a step too much. No jumping around. Don’t try to be fancy! An attentive enemy will have your balance broken in a second and it needlessly drains your strength.”

Abigail’s expression was set with remarkable focus, and even as he grew more sudden and subtle, she reacted to his every move.

He gave her an appreciative nod. “Seems like you are a natural,” he said; and Abigail beamed.

The next hour, interspersed with some sorely needed water breaks, was spent with building a routine for a combination of general defensive stance and implementing the footwork. After introducing a few evasive manoeuvres and blocking methods to prevent left and right hooks to the head region, they finished for the time being and dropped onto a side bench. Abigail promptly discarded her gloves and he the mitts to air the hands. Sweat ran down both of their necks and the late-afternoon sun filtering in through the windows didn’t particularly help with the crushing heat that had amassed inside the gym.

“Sorry sir, but -  _ shit _ , this room really needs to have some actual ventilation installed,” complained Abigail while emitting some little huffs and puffs.

He ran a hand through his hair to push back some rebellious strands that had loosened during practice and sighed. “As Peter never fails to mention.”

“Well, he’s right!”

“I am aware. He often is.” Thomas paused. “Do me a favour and don’t mention me saying this to you, will you?”

Abigail gave a ringing laugh.

“I think I will,” she said. “As thanks.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” he replied and cracked a profound smile to underline his honesty - because it was, indeed, true. He did enjoy himself, as much as he enjoyed teaching Abigail a skill he knew would help her - protect her, if necessary; something that would make her feel safer; and which she had as much fun with as she was eager to learn.

“Anything I can improve?” she asked.

There was a lot, of course, but such was only to be expected at an introductory lesson, and he had noticed that Peter had always seemed rather discouraged by these kinds of responses. Maybe, another approach was in order.

“You are doing fine. And you are proving to be a diligent and talented student as I have ever known one.”

While it didn’t appear to have been the entirely wrong thing to say, it still induced Abigail to frown.

“There must be _ something. _ ”

“Now, I’d say that there’s always  _ something. _ But all has its time and place. I’m absolutely satisfied by what you are evincing right in this instance, relative to circumstance.”

Abigail seemed to ponder this for a second before she pressed on.

“But what would be the next advice you’d give me?”

“Truth be told? Keep your tongue in.”

This visibly caught Abigail off guard. She turned to him, leant forward, exclaimed  _ “What?” _ , and gave him a look that was caught somewhere in-between the two shades of  _ ‘don’t you dare make this a fucking joke’ _ , and  _ ‘is this intended as a fucking joke?’ _ .

“It’s true. Have your tongue between your teeth, and you’ll risk biting it off. It happens far quicker and easier than one might suppose. A wrong impact, clenching your teeth under stress…” He gave this some more thought. “For that matter, it should be a sensible thing to acquire you some of these modern teeth protectors.” He regarded her. “Needless to say, that is only if you intend to proceed with the boxing lessons.”

“ _ Of course _ I want to!” proclaimed Abigail, as if it was the most painstakingly obvious thing in the world. And yet - all of a sudden, she turned away, and looked down onto her bandaged hands, folding and unfolding them.

Clearly, there was something else. Thomas waited; quietly giving her the time to formulate and uncoil. 

“Thanks for taking me seriously,” she said eventually - and rather out of nowhere, he thought, but he merely tilted his head in response.

“Naturally.”

“No, I mean it.” The forceful urgency inside her words probably surprised her even more than him, and she hesitated for a short moment before continuing. “Really. Thanks for taking me on. And thanks for, you know, treating me like I actually know what I’m doing. Like I can handle my part. It’s not...  _ natural. _ Not for many. For most, I’m only a child. And it’s especially not natural for men like  _ you _ .”

Thomas was precisely aware of what she meant with that last sentence. And it certainly was a factor in how he approached her; had to be one, even - about how he approached Peter, Sahra, the world - in how he tried to do things  _ better _ around them, because he had the privilege to be able to do so - and thus the obligation.

But that wasn’t the core point.

“I treat you with the respect your person requires. Not because it is only appropriate with what the barest of correct manners dictate, but because this is what your  _ character _ demands.” He put a hand on her left shoulder and gave it a short squeeze. “You, with all what you are and what you - and only you - bring to the world.”

They exchanged a glance and a vague, yet earnest smile; and where Abigail had, up until now, looked at him with a cautious, but congenial acquaintance, she did now harbour something else in her eyes.

Trust.

Quite aware that he had just earned something invaluable, and something that was not lightly given at all - and he vowed himself to treasure and honour it - Thomas gave her a light pat onto her back before withdrawing his hand.

“All set for some striking on your part?”

Abigail shot up and jumped to her feet.

_ “Totes,” _ she exclaimed and stretched out her hand, presumably to give him a leg-up. He laughed and took it.

Of course he did - everything else would have been disrespectful.

It seemed most sensible to introduce a basic left jab and right cross combination and let it mark the line for the day. He had already provided more input than he’d wanted to give to anyone on their first lesson - even to someone with Abigail’s aptness and concentration. Too much information would prevent what had been learnt from settling, and compared to almost everyone else he had ever taught in non-magical combat, Thomas saw no need to hurry up things here.

“Try and stay relaxed when punching,” he said after demonstrating and directing Abigail to have some goes at the mitts from a static defence position. “You are too tense. It’s only natural to try and give more force to the strikes by contracting your muscles throughout the whole of the buildup, but it will only slow you down and ruin the technique. You only need to brace at the last moment before impact. Everything else is flowing movement, footing, rotation, control over your body.”

Abigail nodded, gnawed on her lower lip, and tried again. This time, the right landed perfectly, requiring him to counterweight to keep the position.

“Better,” he said. “Remember to concentrate as much on the left jab as on right cross. It’s not supposed to be a knockout, but gives you the cover and space needed to set up more powerful punches instead.”

Once more, he provided targets, Abigail kept going, and Thomas was pleased to notice that she grew more assured with each repetition.

Thomas asked her if she felt prepared enough to face some varied targets out of motion.

“Yeah,” affirmed Abigail. With her eyes glowing and the lips set in a determined line, she brought up her arms and fists exactly as he’d illustrated at the very beginning. “Let’s do this.”

Somewhere, Thomas registered a grin of pleasure spread across his face. It wasn’t consciously done - all of his focus rested on his junior apprentice.

“By all means,” he said, and Abigail attacked.

**Author's Note:**

> Abigail is citing Bruce Lee.  
> An XO is a military acronym for an Executive Officer in the army.  
> \--  
> I am currently on a kind of self-imposed hiatus as I'm being busy dealing with real-life (TM) and a lot of other things, but I peeked the linked artwork on tumblr and absolutely could not resist writing this small fic (which also gave me the chance to geek out over martial arts).  
> I very much hope you enjoyed this and would love to hear your opinions, especially as I've written something which definitely ranks kind of outside my comfort zone (no trauma! no heavy emotional stuff! single scene! no PTSD, no war, no OC's!). Just some gen fluff with my two favourite characters in the whole of RoL. I adore Abigail's & Nightingale's kind of apprentice-mentor mixed with found family/surrogate parent dynamic and live for every single one of their shared scenes in the books.  
> Thank you all for reading. I massively appreciate every kind of reaction - you keep a gal going. :) (And I promise I'll get to chapter three of time is broken - fingers crossed!)  
> \--  
> English is not my native language - if you find any kind of spelling or grammatical errors I'd appreciate if you point them out to me. Thank you!


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